


The Dirty Jobs - Methos

by nancy, Zen



Series: Left of Center [7]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nancy/pseuds/nancy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zen/pseuds/Zen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are never quiet for long in this series. Here we have a hell of a fight between the lads and also a Mary Sue. Methos begins to come to terms with the idea of forever with Duncan. Methos' perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dirty Jobs - Methos

**Author's Note:**

> Story title borrowed without permission from Pete Townshend. Song lyrics borrowed without permission from David Bowie and Mighty, Mighty, Bosstones.
> 
> Thanks to Maygra for all her inspiration and encouragement.
> 
> This story was first published years ago at http://hos.slashcity.com/ and is archived here for preservation and accessibility.

Pleasure is seeping slowing into my brain, whispering urgently that if we wake up, this will be even more enjoyable. Oh, that's _nice_. Duncan has apparently decided to wake my dick up before me this morning. Oh yes, he is getting _very_ good at this. 

He stops abruptly, opening his eyes to look up at me. "Good morning," he gives me a sly smile, and resumes his languid consumption. 

"H-how did you know I was awake?" My breath catches in my throat as his tongue twists around me. 

" 'can feel it," he mumbles around me, his eyes drifting shut. 

"Oh," is the most intelligent reply I can manage. I think he means my quickening, and that is just entirely too disturbing. His mouth feels so good, I don't want to think about how he knew I was awake. Later, this is too sweet. Ah, Duncan, you enjoy this, I can tell. You look so happy, watching you is almost as good as the feeling of your mouth closing around me. 

He has such expressive eyes. They are full of affection, teasing me, telling me how confident he is of his ability to please me, and how much he likes doing it. I'm wide awake, and he has my full attention. His mouth holds me, sucking gently. It's a warm, wet, slippery haven that I don't want to leave. 

"Mmm, soft..." I moan, as his mouth slides over me again, so slowly that I can feel the stretch of his lips and the breath he exhales through his nostrils. I want to keep him here all day, sucking me just like this, slow and steady, his tongue playful and rough by turns. 

When he starts to speed up a little I reach for his shoulders, holding him down. 

"No, not yet," I whisper, the sound harsh in my throat. 

He hums a soft sound of satisfaction and agreement around my cock, twisting beneath my hands to encourage my touch. I love the way he becomes instantly pliant under my hands. I love to hold him against me, to bury my hands in his long hair. He feels so good, his mouth coaxing and deliberate. He knows exactly what he's doing to me. 

"Duncan..." I groan his name mindlessly, losing myself to the pleasure. 

He holds me deep in his throat, his tongue dancing lightly, flicking and sweeping up and down my cock. He breathes slowly through his nostrils, refusing to release me. I feel like I am falling into him, and I give in to the softness of his mouth. Moving slowly, pushing all the way into his throat each time, I savor the soft sounds he makes around me. My orgasm sneaks up on me. I am so lost in him, that the blinding eruption of pleasure is a surprise. I ride the intense wave, falling back against the pillow, my hand twisted in his hair. 

His satisfaction is obvious, he has a grin on his face that reminds me of a Cheshire cat. 

"Good morning," he tells me gravely, running his fingertips up and down the center of my chest. 

"Ah, yes," I hear myself answer, not quite able to keep the breathlessness from my voice. 

He has propped himself up on one elbow and is looking at me with wide awake amusement. 

"You are far too smug for eight a.m.," I tell him, leaning up to kiss him soundly. 

"Not smug, just happy," he says. 

I don't believe it for a minute, I know a smug Scot when I see one. Are you so sure you've caught me, love? It's so like him, to decide forever in the space of a moment. I need a shower, and a few minutes to myself. 

"I'm going to make you breakfast," he tells me, kissing my shoulder. 

"I don't eat breakfast," I smile at him, in spite of myself. 

"You know, I noticed that yesterday," he answers, humor in his voice. 

For some reason it irritates me that he can joke about it. "Yes, well, you're a bright boy then, aren't you? Mind if I shower?" I roll out of bed, not bothering to look for my underwear. 

"I'll make coffee," he answers, sounding injured. 

Oh please, Duncan, I'm not even awake yet. Morning people, I swear. He can have three emotional crises and a moral dilemma before I can contemplate anything but which direction to stumble to the bathroom. 

The hot water is soothing, lulling me back to the memory of Duncan's mouth, seducing me awake. The water beats down on the top of my head, and I let it run over my face, closing my eyes. Ah, Duncan, what am I going to do with you? 

I guess I have to face him sometime. Why do I feel like I am not at all ready for this morning? Maybe I'll get lucky and he'll be on deck doing his kata. I crack the bathroom door, inhaling the aroma of coffee. No such luck. 

He's standing at the counter, with his back to me, drinking coffee. Going to the pot to pour myself a cup, I see the look on his face. I put my hand on his shoulder, telling him, "It's just morning, Duncan, not the end of the world. Okay?" 

"Okay." 

Taking my cup over to the couch, I flop down, squinting out the porthole at the day outside. Looks nice, overcast and maybe not too cold. I think I'll go for a long walk, maybe go to the museum, visit some friends. 

"I'm going to go for a run, come with me?" he asks hopefully. 

Go bounce my brain around and sweat in the cold? Now? No thank you. 

"No, you go ahead. I'll see you later." Much later, think dinner, Mac, or possibly breakfast... 

"Okay, I'll make you a copy of keys to the barge while I'm out, that way you can come and go as you please." 

" _No_ , I come and go as I please now. That way you can feel just a little more secure in your hold on me." 

"My hold on you?" 

"Oh please, don't act so coy, MacLeod. What the hell was your lovely little performance earlier, but another way to manipulate me?" 

"Is that what you think?" 

Wonderful. Full blown, outraged Scot, with the wounded, embarrassed anger in his eyes to top it off. Why did I let myself provoke him? This is exactly what I _didn't_ want to deal with in the first place. Now, either he's going to get his anger under control, and we're going to have an endless discussion, or we're going to spend the next two hours screaming at each other, until one of us storms out. How perfectly lovely, and _I_ wanted to go to the museum. What _was_ I thinking. 

"Yes, that's _exactly_ what I think. Manipulating me is as natural to you as breathing. You think that you can use sex to keep me from even considering the idea of leaving you, and you're _wrong_." 

"Methos! That's _not_ true. How can you even say such a thing, when it was you that started this between us in the first place!" 

Oh, I see, we're moving right along to MacLeod Revisionist History. Well, I guess it'll be the yelling match then, because I've lost it. I'm too mad to remind myself that the truth is rarely the wisest course with him when he's this upset. 

" _I_ started it!!! Have you lost you're mind, or just your memory?" 

"Oh yes, well, by all means, give me the truth, your most Holy Five Thousand Years." He's braced against the counter top, so mad he's shaking. 

"Have you forgotten that _you_ were the one who kissed _me_? That _you_ were the one who pursued _me_? That you wouldn't let me leave? Have you decided that you _didn't_ plead with me to stay?" 

_Never_ embarrass him. You know it's a mistake as soon as you begin, every time, and it never stops you. You're really not that clever after all, Old Thing. 

His eyes burn, hot and calculating, considering his answering blow, "Of course, Methos, and you woke me up at two in the morning to tell me what? That you _can_ live without me?" 

Is that what you think, Duncan, that I can't stay away from you? Well, we'll just see about that. 

"You want me to admit that I can't stay away from you? You want to hear that you are essential to my being? Don't hold you're bloody breath! I can live without both your charming personality and your legendary sexual skills, Highlander." 

"Really? Is that why you always come back? Is that why you come to my place in the middle of the night and drink yourself into a stupor on my couch? Is that why you can't stay out of my fights, why you plot and scheme to keep me alive, Methos?" 

"No, I come back because I love you, I love your life. But I will _not_ allow you to use my feelings for you against me, MacLeod, don't even begin to try." 

"That's quite a self righteous statement from the master of manipulation and deceit," he sneers, not willing to give a centimeter. 

"Yes, well, we all know of the impartial fairness of the great judge Duncan MacLeod, don't we?" 

"Fuck you, Methos. You have no right..." 

"I have no rights at all! Maybe when you decide I have the right to make my own decisions, I'll come back. Stay angry, MacLeod, it looks good on you." 

The door doesn't slam quite as loudly as I want it to, but I give it my very best effort, putting my whole arm into it. I walk blindly, angry enough not to notice what direction I'm headed in, just keeping a steady, driving pace. My footsteps keep me company, reminding me of who I am. 

~-~

I'm not surprised when I find myself in my old neighborhood. I've walked nearly across the city, and the late afternoon sunshine has lost it's warmth. I've finally burned out most of my anger, walking Gestapo-style across Paris. Now all I need is to get blind drunk. There's a bar on the corner, with noise streaming out of it. Lots of kids hanging out in front, posing up against the brick wall of the building. It must have opened while I've been gone. Inside it's dark, smaller than it looked from outside, and smells of pot smoke and beer and hairspray. 

The music is deafeningly loud when I first walk in, but eventually my ears adjust and stop hurting. The kids are mostly punks, with some gothic vampy looking types mixed in. I like these kinds of places, they're the best to get lost in. With my black duster and short, spiky hair, I don't look that much different from the rest of the patrons. Tonight their youthful anger and exuberance is welcome. It amuses me that I can fit in so well here, that they will take me for one of them. I'm not even really too old. Well, by appearances, anyway. There are several old punks in scarred leather jackets at the bar, arguing whether Sid was a demigod, a scapegoat, or only a puppet of Malcolm's machine. They are quoting several recent books on the poor lad, and pounding on the bartop to make their points. Now this is something worth arguing about. I wonder if MacLeod even knows what a Sex Pistol is? 

"He was all three," I tell them, wandering over. "A martyr, a prophet and a puppet, but if you turn him into a cliche you take away his power." 

"That's it exactly! Saint Sid of the Holy Swindle!" She comes up to my shoulder, but her hair brings us to almost equal height. A magnificent green mohawk. "Now I have to buy you a beer." 

"I won't argue with that. What's your name?" I ask her, shouting above the music. 

"Morgan. We need to get drunk together." 

"That's a beautiful idea, Morgan." 

She gets the bartender's attention and he comes over with two New Castles. Must be a regular. 

"You're American?" I lean down to shout in her ear. We've moved to stand directly in front of a large speaker, whose thick cord is taped to the floor with silver duct tape, running to the jukebox against the wall. 

"I'm a mutt, but yeah, I'm from Chicago." 

"I love Chicago. It's big and cruel and friendly all at the same time." 

"That's my city," she shouts back, grinning and toasting me with her bottle. 

"You are extremely intuitive. How do you manage to crystallize places and people like that, see them so clearly?" she asks me in the space between songs. 

"I've seen a lot of places and people," I answer, going to the bar to get our next round. 

When I come back Morgan is leaning over the jukebox, scrutinizing it as if it were the holy Koran. She feeds the machine several francs, making the selections reverently. 

"Music is the very best thing, don't you think?" she shouts, smiling. 

The song she's played is slower than the hardcore that was on when I walked in, and sounds like a hybrid of ska and early New York punk. The lyrics are wonderful, she couldn't have picked a better song for me. 

_Gonna dive into a dive_

_I've dove into before_

_Gonna haunt the haunt I've haunted_

_Like a million times or more_

_A familiar joint where getting drunk's the only point_

_To frequent this place with any frequency at all_

_Countin' on a remedy I've counted on before_

_Goin' with the cure that's never failed me_

_What you call the disease, I call the remedy_

_What you're callin' the cause I call the cure_

_Gonna sing a song, a song to you_

_A song I've sung before_

_Belt out a ballad that I've belted out_

_A million times or more_

_The words I'm gonna scream_

_And gettin' drunk's the central theme_

_To the lyrics, if you can make the lyrics out at all_

_Countin' on a remedy I've counted on before_

_Goin' with a cure that's never failed me_

_What you call the disease, I call the remedy_

_What you're callin' the cause, I call the cure_

_Just a devotion to a potion_

_Please no applause_

_A dedication to a medication_

_A crutch a cure a cause_

_What I've counted on to pick me up_

_Has knocked me to my knees_

_Before I hit the floor once more_

_I'll call it the disease_

Morgan shouts along happily, slamming her beer between verses. 

"This is great, who is it?" I'm always looking for new music. 

"The Mighty Mighty Bosstones. They're from Boston, been around forever," my drinking partner shouts back. 

"It's great, is there any Social Distortion on there?" I have the feeling Morgan knows the entire jukebox by heart. 

"I played 'Story Of My life' and 'Ring Of Fire', what did you want to hear? They have everything but Mainliner." 

"You are an empathic soul, Morgan, I'll get us more beer." 

"More beer are the two best words you can say to me. Oh, shit, what's your name, I'm sorry." 

"Adam, I'll be right back." 

"Okay Adam." 

Leaning against the bar, waiting to get the big, tattooed bartender's attention, I wonder what MacLeod would think of his holy five thousand years if he could see me now? I laugh out loud, enjoying the reckless freedom of this seedy little place. Here, you could easily convince yourself the year was only nineteen seventy-nine, and that Duncan MacLeod didn't even exist. 

Four beers later, we've moved to one of the tables against the wall and I've heard the story of Morgan's life, the condensed version. She's entertaining, telling me of some exploits she had with what sounds like a very dangerous character. 

"So, why are we getting drunk, Adam, love or money?" she asks, turning the conversation away from G.G Allin effortlessly. 

"Love, or something like it. I think it's addiction actually," I tell her crossly. 

"Well Adam, we all have our monsters. My advice is to surrender to it. If it's addiction, that's all you can do. You don't get to keep them forever. I don't know about yours, but my monsters seem to have very short life spans. You know, live fast, die ugly." She takes a long pull on her beer. "Hunger is more powerful than anything, and love isn't worth shit unless it can submit to will. So, if you _can_ love, that's what you have to go with." 

"Wise Morgan needs another beer." 

She shrugs, willing to let me off the hook, so I tell her, "I can't love him, it's totally suicidal." 

"It's always suicidal. Love kills." She looks like she knows this from first hand experience. 

"What if what I'm risking is more than just one life?" 

"Ah! Now that's the real sacrifice, to be willing to give up the future you don't have yet...is it that dire?" 

"Only if I think about it." 

"Well, then, don't think about it." A goofy, drunken grin goes along with this sage advice. 

"He makes me crazy, he thinks that he can use what I feel for him against me." 

"He can. What is it that he needs that you're afraid to give?" 

"Time." 

"Time's scary," she agrees, nodding. Social Distortion's version of the Ring of Fire begins, and Morgan screams to the bartender, "Hey! Jolly! Turn it up!" 

This is met by a chorus of agreement, and Jolly complies. The skinheads have formed a circle to skank in, not at all deterred by the lack of any kind of dance floor. Watching them skip and bob, holding onto each other and singing along at the top of their lungs, I am filled with spontaneous joy. This is exactly what I needed. 

The line 'bound by wild desire' lodges in my head, and I feel the longing for him that never goes away. It _is_ addiction, nothing less, and still so much more. Morgan is right though, there's no point in running from it, not when I know he loves me. 

Making this decision has left me giddy. It's euphoric, to finally give in to loving him completely. So, he will use me. That's nothing new. I use him too, although not nearly as blatantly. What difference does it make, if we can love each other until the end of time? 

Morgan has leapt up to join the boys skanking, and I follow her, letting myself be pulled around the circle with her. The press of bodies against me, and the rolling, rocking step, express the exuberance inside me perfectly. 

Three songs later, Morgan drags me out of the circle, panting, "More beer." 

"Carpe cervisia!" 

"What's that?" my friend shouts back to me. 

"Seize the beer!" I tell her, laughing when she shouts in agreement. 

Several more New Castles later, I find myself leaning against the wall, the payphone pressed tightly to my ear, and Morgan hovering encouragingly at my elbow. 

"MacLeod." 

"Hi!" 

"Methos? Where the hell are you?" 

"Morgan, where are we?" 

"The Pit." 

"This wonderful dive called the Pit, it's catty-corner from my old flat, two doors off the corner." 

"You're drunk." 

"And you're a clever boy, whom I owe at least an apology, and possibly a blow job." 

"When you put it that way..." 

I can't really understand what he's saying, it's too loud and Morgan is laughing hysterically. I can't help laughing with her, talking to Duncan on the payphone in a punk bar is just too surreal. 

"Just come drink with us Duncan, please?" 

"Who's us?" he asks suspiciously, raising his voice to make sure I hear him. 

"My friend, Morgan. She has excellent taste in ale." 

"And monsters," Morgan pipes up drunkenly. 

"Alright, Old Man. Do you think you can try to stay out of trouble till I get there?" 

"Yes, absolutely, however, after that, I make no guarantees. Oh, Duncan, definitely dress down, okay?" 

"Yeah, well, wouldn't want to make you look bad. I'll see you shortly." He hangs up on me, and I put the phone down, looking at Morgan and cracking up again. 

"He's on his way?" Morgan asks hopefully. 

"Yes, although when he gets here he may not be very pleased with me." Or my choice of taverns, I think, but I don't want to offend her. 

"He's pretty normal, huh? It's okay, we'll get him drunk, he'll have fun. Besides, I have to meet the man who has this much power over someone as strong as you." 

"Why do you think I'm strong?" I ask her, baffled. 

"You know, you are the sum of your scar tissue. I've got this theory...about strength. That's all any of us are." 

"That's quite a theory. Are you saying my scar tissue's showing?" 

She shakes her head at me, smiling, "Nah, you wear it well, Adam. I'm just a connoisseur of scar tissue, that's all. You know, I really like you, most people find me a little too odd to follow when I get going..." 

"Morgaine, my dear, you are a spirit born in the wrong time, don't let it trouble you," I tell her, realizing that I'm drunker than I thought I was. Morgan is easily twice as smashed though, she's kept up with me beer for beer all night. 

We stumble back to our table, weaving around the dancing punks. Morgan expounds on her theory, which is fascinating, but would have probably been easier to follow earlier in the evening. 

The Seven Second's cover of the standard, 'When The Kids Are United' blasts out of the speakers, and Morgan and I drop the conversation by instant mutual agreement to throw ourselves into the crush of cheering bodies. 

We have a rollicking rhythm going when Duncan walks in. I feel him coming, but the momentum of the dance prevents me from going to greet him. When the song ends, I grab Morgan's arm, pulling her out. 

" _That's_ the monster?" she asks me, bracing herself on my shoulder to reach up to shout in my ear. 

"That is Duncan MacLeod." 

"Sound's like a supermodel. Looks _way_ better than that Fabio moron. Wow. You are a _fool_ if you walk away." 

I am amused by even hardened Morgan's reaction to Duncan's looks. His attraction is very nearly irresistible. 

"You begin to see the danger," I tell her, smiling, as we make our way to the door. 

He's looking around, standing very tall in the entrance way, sizing up the bar's characters. 

"Duncan! This is Morgan." 

"Hi Duncan, how's it going?" Morgan offers Duncan her hand, and he takes it, looking a little stunned, but smiling. 

"Hello Morgan, it's a pleasure to meet you." 

I wonder if it's the green hair or the scratches all over the backs of her hands that's disturbed him. 

"What do you drink, Duncan?" Morgan shouts to him over the music. 

He can't hear her, so I translate for him, closer to his ear. 

"Glenmorangie," he shouts back. 

"What the hell is that?" Morgan asks, cocking her green fin at him. 

"It's scotch. How about a beer instead, whatever you two are drinking." 

Morgan disappears, pushing her way through the crowd, which has grown considerably over the course of the evening. 

"I did it again, Methos, I'm sorry..." Duncan is trying to tell me over the noise. 

"Don't apologize, Duncan, I like you just the way you are." Now that _has_ to be the beer talking. 

Before he can say anything Morgan has come back with three beers and more change for the jukebox. I follow her, leaning over her shoulder to put my two cents in. We play Clash, and Pistols, and X, and Morgan wants to hear 'Another Drinking Song' again. 

Duncan is sitting at the table where we left him, looking less uncomfortable than I thought he'd be. He's watching two girls dancing together, doing a parody of a waltz to the Dead Kennedys. 

Morgan is a lot less talkative with Duncan. I wonder if she is just as confused by him as he is by her. They try to make small talk over the music, but Duncan asks her what she does for a living, and she asks him what he thinks of the Bosstones. I think it's hysterical that Duncan feels the generation gap and I don't. I need this though, to stay connected to the young, he doesn't. Some of his innocence is still intact, so he doesn't have to go looking for it in others, as much. I wonder what Morgan would think if I called her innocent? 

My drinking partner gets up to dance again, shooting me an encouraging look over her shoulder. When she's gone, Duncan leans close to me, pitching his voice low to be heard through the music. 

"Can I take you back to the barge with me?" 

"Yes, take me home. And by the way, where's my key?" 

He looks confused, poor Duncan. I'll have to enlighten him when we get home. 

"Do you want to say goodbye to your friend?" he asks, already standing. How this place's charm can escape him, I don't understand, but it's okay, I'll come back on my own sometime. 

We find Morgan on our way to the door. 

"Are you leaving, Adam? Take care..." She jumps up to throw her arms around my neck. "And remember," she says in my ear, "Love under will." 

"Thank you," I tell her sincerely, I don't know what else to say. 

"Appreciate him," she tells Duncan sternly, smiling when he promises to. 

"Come back some time?" she asks me, catching my arm. 

"I will. Take care of yourself, Morgan." 

"Don't worry, I'm good at survival." 

Me too, I think, wondering how it is that this infant and I have so much in common. 

The cold air sobers me up a little on the walk to the car. Duncan opens the door for me, closing it when I've fallen in to the passenger seat. I reach across to unlock the driver's side for him. 

"So, you made a friend?" Duncan asks me, obviously confused by my choice of company. 

"Yes, I did. What did you do all day?" 

"Sulked," he tells me, smiling. 

I love you, Duncan. 

"That's good. How about we go home and make nice?" 

"That's a wonderful idea," he agrees, starting the car. 

The ride home is silent. I take his hand in mine, content to watch the dark streets passing by. The ringing in my ears has subsided by the time we get back to the barge. Why does he live on a boat? Am I really going to call this place home? The last time I lived on a boat I was in China. 

"Careful," Duncan gives me his hand over the walkway, steadying my steps. 

"Yes, Mother," I tease him, grinning when he turns around to frown at me. 

"That's fine, Old Man, make fun of me all you like, just don't fall in the river. I don't want to have to fish you out." 

"I'm not that drunk," I argue, swaying slightly behind him, waiting for him to unlock the door. 

"And exactly how drunk is that? If your friend Morgan's condition was any indicator, you've had an obscene amount of beer tonight." 

"I'm surprised she was able to keep up with me, actually. Impressive." 

"Alcoholic," Duncan counters. 

"Be nice Duncan, I like her, she's a survivor." 

"If you say so," he answers, obviously avoiding the argument. That's good, I've had more than enough fighting for one day. 

My backpack is near the bed, and I go to it, digging out my tapes. "This night of superb music has inspired me. Dance with me Duncan?" 

"I'll do my best," he tells me, looking nervous. 

He looks relieved when I put in David Bowie's 'Tonight'. This song is so wonderful to slow dance to. I go to him, slipping my arms up, around his neck. He pulls me close, and we fit together perfectly. Duncan is a wonderful dancer, he moves us in slow, effortless circles around the room. I lay my head down on his shoulder, murmuring the words to him, 

_I am going to love you until I reach the end_

_I will love you till I die_

_I will see you in the sky,_

_tonight_

He hums softly, his hands moving slowly over my back. This is like floating, pure bliss. This is home. The barge rocks gently beneath us, as we rock against each other, and David croons. 

We turn to each other at the same time, our lips pressing softly, in the briefest brush of a kiss. I smile against his lips, it is so wonderful to be sure that he is mine. I need him, for more reasons than I can count, and I love him just as desperately. His lips are inviting, coaxing me gently. He is so incredibly sensual, I don't think he even realizes how magnetic he is for me. The song has ended, the last one on that side of the tape, but we continue to move in slow circles, our legs brushing lightly against each other. 

I can feel the rounded muscles of his thighs through my jeans, and the strength in his arms. My hands are buried in his hair, kneading the back of his neck gently. He is quiet, not talking, simply holding me. His calm silence is eloquent, and I love him even more for it. I wonder how he came to this point, that he is so obviously willing to accept the idea of letting me go. That was awfully quick, for him. He must really need me as badly as I need him. That's good. 

Especially because he is brushing his hips back and forth across mine, exciting me with the slight contact. Oh god, I need this. It's been a very long time since I have come close to being anything like a slave to passion, but he is more than I can take. I just need him, on so basic a level that it is the only thing that matters. 

"You know I'm not very good at making promises," I whisper in his ear. 

"That's okay," he assures me softly. 

"I need you, Duncan. It scares me, the hold you have over me. If you were any less honorable I don't think I could do this. You are still so young, Duncan, you cannot possibly understand how much time terrifies me. You know I have never promised anyone, in five thousand years, more than one lifetime." 

"Yes, I do," he answers quietly, holding me almost protectively against him. 

"None of it matters though, not really. The only thing that matters is that you are what I need. I love you so completely, Duncan, with everything that I am. There is no way I will ever be able to deny my love for you, or to walk away from this. Please help me be less afraid, love. I say the stupidest things when I think my back's against the wall. I didn't mean what I said this morning." 

"Shh, I love you. I will always love you," he tells me with such absolute certainty that it loosens the fear, diluting it's potency. 

He kisses me very softly, his eyes drifting shut. Inhaling his exhaled breath, I feel as though I have finally surrendered. There is such peace here, in his arms. We stand still, pressed against each other from knee to shoulder, not moving, just kissing. His lips cover mine gently, coaxing my mouth open. His tongue brushes against my lower lip, licking delicately and then retreating. I don't think there is anything in the world that feels better than this. 

He is solid and warm against me, his heart beating against my chest. There's something about him that is like a drug for me. It's the way he smells, the way he moves. I just want to be as close to him as I can get. My tongue searches his mouth, reveling in his taste and texture. 

When I open my eyes again I realize we're standing at the foot of the stairs. His hands move from my back, taking my hand to lead me to bed. 

He hasn't said a word, but his eyes hold mine. There is so much love in his eyes. Stopping us next to the bed, he undresses me slowly. It's difficult to hold myself away from him long enough to let him get my clothes off. I need to hold him against me, to have his arms around me. My jeans fall around my ankles and I kick them off, as I pull his belt through the loops. He sighs when my hands move to the zipper, releasing it. His hands on my hips draw me forward, leaning in to kiss me with such restrained passion that I melt against him, savoring his lips. 

His mouth releases me reluctantly, his tongue retreating with a last playful flick against my upper lip. Mmm, you taste so good Duncan. He finishes the job I started, pulling off his jeans and sweater. I move gratefully back into his arms as soon as he has finished, and the first touch of our naked skin takes my breath away. He is hard against me, smooth and hot and pulsing with life. I wrap my arms around him tightly, wanting nothing more than to hold him against me. It feels so right, better than anything ever has, to be able to hold him and know that he is mine, that he loves me. 

He guides me down onto the bed, his mouth already seeking mine. Soft, lingering kisses that make me sigh happily against his lips. I push my tongue lazily to his mouth, tasting him languidly. He has rolled us to our sides so that we can lay completely pressed against each other, his fingertips roam lightly over my back. 

"I love you," he whispers in my ear, taking my earlobe between his lips, sucking gently. 

"Mmm, Duncan," I hear myself moan his name breathlessly, turning my head to give him better access to my neck. I think I'm going to have a hickey, for a little while, anyway. Nuzzling the place where his throat meets his shoulder, I shiver in his arms. His warm breath giving me goose bumps. He licks the sensitized skin delicately, finding a spot near the base of my throat that makes me groan with pleasure. 

I don't know how long we stay like that, necking in bed like two teenagers, licking and nuzzling and sucking. It feels like forever. Like the world has disappeared completely, and there is only us, lying on this bed with our arms wrapped tightly around each other. 

I feel so close to him right now, like he is almost a part of me. When we finally begin to move, our hard cocks sliding against each other, I moan, biting the soft skin at the base of his throat. 

"Ahh, Methos," he cries, his hand moving to my ass, holding me tightly against him. 

"Yes," I hiss, grinding against him. 

It feels so good, the slide of hot, smooth skin and the friction of his cock dragging slowly over mine. It's heaven, the way we move together, in perfect synch. Our breathing is harsher now, coming in gasps. His tongue in my mouth is all I need to push me over the edge. I come sucking on his tongue, my hands squeezing the hard, rounded muscles of his back. He groans into my mouth, the hot stickiness of his come mixing with my own, splattered across our bellies. 

Untangling our limbs slowly, he grins at me when our bodies come apart with a wet, sucking sound. 

"Shower?" 

"Mmm, very good idea, as soon as I can move." 

"Ditto," he mumbles, kissing my shoulder. 

His eyes smile at me sleepily, his hair is a mess of tangles on the pillow. He looks like a large, sleepy, satisfied cat. I drift in and out of sleep for a few minutes, too content to move. 

He rolls back to his side, propping himself up on an elbow. His fingertips run up and down my thigh, caressing me lightly. 

"Shower?" 

"Hmm? Yeah," I open my eyes slowly, squinting up at him. "Wash my back?" 

"I'd love to. Come on." He pulls my arm, sitting me up and dragging me to the edge of the bed. 

The shower is just barely big enough, we are going to have talk about a tub if I'm going to live here. There isn't a lot of room to move, but I'm not claustrophobic. I like standing so close to him under the hot water, bumping knees and elbows as we wash each other. He hands me the soap, turning us around so that I'm standing under the water. Working up a thick lather I slide the bar of soap over his chest, my nails scratching lightly over his nipples. His cock stirs against my thigh, hardening slowly. He raises his arms above his head to let me wash under his arms. Pressing myself against him, I wash his back, moving the bar of soap in circles from his shoulders down to the cleft of his ass. He makes a low, rumbling sound of pleasure when my soapy fingers stroke between his cheeks, caressing him gently. Remembering that I'm supposed to be washing him, and that the hot water won't last forever, I set the soap down to wash his hair. Holding his head beneath the spray to rinse the shampoo, my hand supporting the back of his neck, I kiss him deeply. 

Rubbing against him under the water, our soapy bodies sliding back and forth effortlessly, I reach for the soap again. There is almost no space to move, the farthest we can get is only a few inches apart. I step back against the tiled wall, rolling the bar between my palms to work up a thick lather. 

"I think I missed a spot," I tell him, letting my eyes wander down his magnificent body. 

"You did?" he asks breathlessly, as I take his erect cock in my hands. "Ahh, so nice..." 

His words trail off as I slide slick, soapy hands up and down his length. Twisting my wrist, moving up and down in a rhythm set to give him maximum pleasure, my other hand cups his balls in my palm. I love watching his face when I do this, waiting for the moment when his control will snap. He holds very still, his arms at his sides, the muscles of his forearms bulging and his fists clenched. 

His hands come down on my shoulders, turning me around to face the wall of the small shower. His cock nestles between my cheeks, already pushing urgently. I brace myself with my palms flat against the wall; anticipation makes it hard to relax. His teeth bite the back of my neck, sucking hard. When the head of his cock pushes inside me I cry out sharply in pain and pleasure. His arm wraps around my waist, supporting me. His cock invades me slowly, his mouth moving possessively over the back of my neck. When he has pushed all the way inside me I lean back against him, letting him hold me up. His hand strays to my cock, wrapping around me as he begins to move. He takes me hard, thrusting deeply into me with sharp, quick thrusts of his hips. 

I match his pace, pushing back against him urgently. The pleasure has taken over the pain. Now all I can do is ride the waves of ecstasy, my head swimming and the hot water streaming down my back. His hand moves faster and faster, squeezing me in time to the hard thrusts of his cock into my body. I bite my lip, moaning, and come in his hand, pushing my face against the wet tile. He drives into me deeply, groaning my name, his face pressed to my shoulder. His hand milks the last of my orgasm from my cock as he comes inside me. 

We stay like that until the water starts to turn cool, giving me goose bumps. He pulls out of me slowly, pressing a last kiss to the back of my neck. I feel like I'm going to fall down if he lets go of me, so I lean back against him, resting my head back onto his shoulder. 

"Are you okay?" he asks me breathlessly, his arms wrapping tightly around my waist. 

"Oh yes, just exhausted." 

"I didn't think...did I hurt you?" he asks anxiously, turning me around in his arms to look at me. 

"Only a little, it's okay. Bed?" 

"I'm sorry," he pulls me close, reaching behind me to shut off the water. 

"No, don't be, we heal, remember? Really, Duncan, it was most wonderful, don't be sorry." 

He blushes, grinning at me, "Okay." 

He opens the glass door and the cold air hits me, making me shiver. He reaches for a towel, wrapping it around me before stepping out. When I'm dry I follow him to bed, crawling in to spoon behind him. I shiver, still a little damp, and he rolls over to wrap me in a warm embrace. 

"I love you, Methos," he tells me softly, holding me close against his chest. 

"And I love you, Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod." 

I raise my head to kiss him lingeringly. His lips are so wonderful, soft and warm. He smiles sleepily, settling me in his arms, my cheek pressed to his shoulder. 

"Sleep well, Methos." 

"Happy dreams, Highlander," I know that if I dream at all, it will be of his love. 

~-~

_My kharma tells me_

_You've been screwed again._

_If you let them do it to you_

_You've got yourself to blame._

_It's you who feels the pain_

_It's you who feels ashamed._

_I am a young man_

_I ain't done very much,_

_You men should remember how you used to fight._

_Just like a child, I've been seeing only dreams_

_I'm all mixed up but I know what's right._

~-~

**Author's Note:**

> Song lyrics borrowed without permission from Pete Townshend.


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